


don't you want me, baby

by owilde



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Complicated Relationships, Introspection, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-10 23:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17435429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: Bruce doesn’t care.Lie.





	don't you want me, baby

**Author's Note:**

> Oddly enough, listening to Cher's "Strong Enough" inspired this. I don't know, either. Set after S4 but before the beginning of S5, it's a little vague and doesn't really matter.
> 
> Title taken from The Human League's "Don't You Want Me."

Bruce doesn’t care.

_Lie_.

Bruce cares enough to hate, with vitriol that spills out through cracks and seeps dark around him, tainting everything. He hates so much he thinks he might burst from it, and he has nowhere to put his anger – his target’s gone, vanished into thin air, and Bruce is left reeling, a blind mouse in a maze.

_Half-truth_.

Bruce cares enough to understand it’s not mere hate. It’s never been hate with Jeremiah, and he’s not sure he knows how to switch off that part of him that feels an inkling of fondness, a hope for something that can and now never will happen. He’s not sure he wants to switch it off. It’s a safety net, and he’s tangling from a tightrope way above ground, still blind, fumbling his way to the other side where something awaits. He doesn’t know what it is.

_True_.

The manor is dead silent around him. Bruce sits in one of the rooms left empty after his parents’ death, his legs crossed, his skin marble. Every piece of furniture is covered with a white sheet, to shield them from collecting dust. Bruce wishes someone would come in and wrap him up too, leave him there with the memory of his parents.

But Alfred’s away for now, and Selina’s gone, teetering between life and death. Bruce has felt alone, and he’s felt lonely – he suffocates in both now, feeling phantom needle pricks on his skin. The window’s shut tight, and the curtains hang limp from the ceiling, dragging on the floor. Bruce stares at the edge of the fabric, then forces his eyes to move to the wall in front of him.

It had been empty two days ago, when he’d been sitting here, in the same spot. The stillness of the room helps him think, he likes to believe, or at least force himself to believe. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to be thinking about, when there are so many paths to walk down upon.

Gotham. Him. Selina. Jim Gordon. Alfred. Intersections and parallel lines.

Jeremiah. Bruce can’t decided if his line, a thin red wire, runs parallel to Bruce’s, or perhaps diagonally, or if maybe their lines are a tangled web of lies, and hurt, and a deep ache in his chest. Whatever it may be, it occupies a great deal of his mind, and Bruce finds this bothersome. He doesn’t want to give Jeremiah any more space than he’s already conquered, yet he finds himself yielding, piece by piece, day by night.

The wall, previously empty, stares back at Bruce in the dark. It poses a question, written in neat scripture, that doubles as a threat: _What do you want?_

Bruce doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why Jeremiah is asking, either, instead of simply forcing them down the road he’s chosen. He doesn’t understand, but he wants to – and that’s what’s causing his chest to tighten and his hands to curl into tight fists.

He shouldn’t want to understand. Jeremiah is a threat – Jeremiah is violent, calculative; Jeremiah shot Selina, Jeremiah blew the bombs; Jeremiah called him his best friend. Maybe it’s the title that’s causing him to be stuck thinking about this, or maybe it’s something else. Bruce’s mind helpfully supplies memories of Jeremiah from before, giving him shy glances and hesitant smiles.

Maybe it’s something else, altogether.

Bruce is what Gotham needs, he’s certain. And Gotham is what _he_ needs, and perhaps, in some sense, Jeremiah is a part of that, entwined with the city in a way that leaves Bruce longing for both, incapable of separating them even in the privacy of his own mind.

_What do you want?_

Bruce swallows air and moves a little, trying to get his blood flowing again. What does he want? He wants for Selina to be okay. He wants for all of this to go back to normal – but there’s no normal, here, and there never was. Bruce sits amidst the dust and feels his heart beat against his chest, calling out for something or someone.

There’s a slight rustle, and then the window is open. Bruce is on his feet before he even notices, his back to the door of the room, eyes snapping towards the sound. The curtains are moving slightly with the breeze, and in between them, veiled almost like a macabre bride, illuminated by the moonlight – Jeremiah.

His face is shadowed but Bruce can make out the red of his lips, the sharp shapes of his brows. He’s not looking at Bruce, but is rather eyeing the room around them, his gaze lingering on the covered family painting that Bruce hasn’t had the strength to look at in a long while.

“Give me one good reason,” Bruce starts, and finds his voice steady, “not to hurt you back right now.”

Jeremiah’s gaze flits over to him, and their eyes lock, like something clicking into place. He smiles, barely there, subdued. “Bruce,” he says, and it’s venomous and a caress, at the same time. “Don’t be foolish. We’re past that – if you wanted to hurt me, you had an abundance of chances for that.”

Bruce’s fingers twitch, and his spine tingles. He wants to pounce forward and tackle Jeremiah against the window frame; he can picture his fingers curling around his neck, pressing down and down until there’s no resistance anymore. It’d be easy. It’d be quick. Death is a simple process, when broken down – it’s the aftermath that Bruce is terrified of.

“Yes,” he concedes. “And then you shot Selina.”

Jeremiah shrugs, a delicate movement. “A necessary evil.” He pauses to contemplate. “Well… maybe less necessary and more an indulgence on my part, I will admit.”

Bruce’s blood isn’t boiling the way he wants it to. He steps closer, Jeremiah’s question burning against his back from the wall. “When...” He abandons the question before it forms. It doesn’t matter when Jeremiah got here to write it, or even how. “Why?”

Jeremiah’s gaze moves past his shoulder and to the words on the wall. A corner of his mouth tilts up in amusement. Bruce doesn’t feel a spark of thrill over the fact that Jeremiah understood what he meant from just that, like he’d read his mind, like there was an unspoken connection there – he _doesn’t_.

“I was curious,” Jeremiah offers as an explanation. “We’re here, now. The play’s about to begin. I wanted to know… what _do_ you want?”

“From you?” Bruce asks, then adds, “Wouldn’t it have been easier to _make_ me want something?”

The smile deepens, and Bruce takes another step. The invisible ice starts cracking under them. “Haven’t I already?” Jeremiah poses.

Bruce stops, and blinks once, twice. He’s not willing to dissect in his mind whether his feelings stem from something genuine, or something else – whether this link he’s forced to feel is his creation, or Jeremiah’s. If he stops to think, he’ll remember the before, and then the after, and the dichotomy between them is enough to give him a whiplash.

“I don’t know,” he says, honestly.

Jeremiah eyes him almost fondly, but it’s too cold for that, and falls short. “Me neither,” he confesses. “But to answer your other question – yes, from me. It seems this relationship has been awfully one-sided, hasn’t it, Bruce? I’m nothing if not willing to make compromises.”

_Lie_. Bruce bites his tongue to keep himself from denying it’s a relationship, and instead moves closer, like he’s a chess piece inching across the board, one step at a time. He doesn’t know what he’ll do once he’s close enough to touch. “I want…” His mind flashes from one thought to another, too fast to hold on to anything. “Does it matter?”

“Of course.” Jeremiah tilts his head slightly. “Everything about you matters, Bruce, whether you want it to or not. This has all been about you, always. It’s you, and me, and this pull between us – you feel it.” His words are punctuated by Bruce taking another small step. “I know you do, Bruce. I know what _I_ want. I know what I’ll do. Do you?”

It’s action and an equal opposite reaction. Jeremiah does something, and Bruce feels compelled to retaliate, in whatever shape or form that may be. Jeremiah’s the one who makes the first move – he leads their dance, and Bruce holds on, swaying along.

It doesn’t matter what he says. Jeremiah’s plans are set – he’ll move forward with them in spite of Bruce’s wants or needs. But he’s asking. For what? Bruce doesn’t understand, yet again, and as he takes one more step, he reaches Jeremiah.

They’re standing chest to chest, little to no space between them. Jeremiah looks down at him, and up close, Bruce can see the flaws. The tiny cracks on his lips, the mistaken stroke on his right brow, the asymmetrical shapes of his eye shadow.

“I want you to leave me alone,” Bruce says, lies, and feels it when Jeremiah huffs out a laugh.

“If you really meant that,” he says, “I wouldn’t even consider it.” The wind rustles the curtains again, blowing cold air into the room. “You’ll just have to play along, then. I do believe you’ll enjoy the first act – it’s all about us.”

Bruce doesn’t ask, _why would I enjoy that?_ Instead, he reaches out, to trace his thumb along the curve of Jeremiah’s cheekbone. It feels real, and solid – he’s there, tangible. Bruce withdraws his hand, and Jeremiah lifts a brow.

“Do you mind?” He asks, quiet and too silky.

Bruce frowns. “Yes.”

Jeremiah hums in acknowledgement, before leaning closer to press his lips against Bruce’s. His eyes flutter close. It’s over as soon as it started – a brief touch, a breath against his mouth, and then the pressure is gone. Bruce keeps his eyes closed, and feels his hands tremble. He wants to… to…

“I’ll see you for the opening night,” Jeremiah whispers, a promise.

When Bruce opens his eyes, he’s alone again.


End file.
